Starting Over
by NotAContrivance
Summary: Andrew and Bridget talk about what her pregnancy means, and Bridget comes to realize a few things about her new life as Siobhan. Mid-pilot. Bridget/Andrew.


For whatever reason, I am in love with this show and ridiculously inspired for it. Since the show doesn't show us the conversation Andrew and Bridget have after he finds out she's pregnant, I decided to take a shot at it. Andrew may be a bit out of character, but it's hard for me to balance their marriage problems with the excitement that usually comes with having a baby. Since, by all indications, he does seem to be happy about the kid, I decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. I just hope I did them justice.

I don't own Ringer, nor could I ever aspire to such a feat. I don't even own the first few lines, since those are directly from the show... Nonetheless, I hope you enjoy this story and care enough to review.

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><p>Being Siobhan is nothing like she thought it would be. Who knew that Siobhan's life was, in many respects, just as screwed up as her own, only with more money? She'd forgotten her sister's penchant for keeping secrets. Bridget had never been good at keeping secrets. Like it or not, her life had pretty much always been an open book. Bridget the drunk, Bridget the druggie, Bridget the stripper, Bridget the hooker... everyone had always known who she was. Six years had passed, and living her sister's life was making her wonder if she'd ever really known Siobhan. How much could a person change in six years?<p>

The phone ringing catches her off-guard and snaps her out of her thoughts. "Hello?" Bridget whirls around and glances down at the unfamiliar number. The caller I.D. isn't helpful. All it can tell her is that the person is calling from Manhattan. She learned her lesson after the Gemma mishap and went through Siobhan's phone in an attempt to try and figure out the many people in her sister's life. This number was one of many that her sister had called but hadn't added to her contacts. She hadn't had the guts or the willpower to go through her sister's cell and dial all the numbers, trying to guess who they are, and she hopes she's not about to pay for that now.

The voice that answers her is a pleasant-sounding man, maybe twenty years older than her, but friendly and congenial. Still, despite this, she can't feel at ease. "Mrs. Martin, this is Doctor Marks. I'm sorry to call so late, but you didn't show up for your appointment this afternoon." Dr. Marks sounds worried. The "Mrs. Martin" jolts her; it's impossible to think of herself as a married person, or, indeed, anyone other than Bridget Kelly the Screw-Up. Yet here, in this world, masquerading as her sister, she's become some classy, refined "Mrs. Andrew Martin," an icy social queen who shares none of her personality traits or opinions but has her face.

He's right to be worried, of course. It's not like her sister to not show up. She gets it... but why wasn't the appointment in her book? Bridget can't imagine that anyone else bothers to read her sister's day planner. Who didn't she want to know about this appointment? What does it even mean? "Uh... Um, sorry, I um... I must've forgotten to write it in my book," Bridget apologizes, almost stammering and trying to sound forgetful, like it was an accident. She doesn't know how long the forgetful/tired/time/whatever excuses are going to work, but she can sense time running out.

The doctor seems to take that in stride. "Well, reschedule when you can," he instructs briefly but not quite sternly. He pauses only for an instant, "Because your bloodwork came back positive." He says this expectantly, like she should have something to say about it, but of course Bridget doesn't know what to say.

She's alarmed at first, worrying that Siobhan has cancer or some strange disease. After all, she doesn't know what her sister does in her free time (her best friend's husband, apparently), and, in Bridget's experience, positive test results are almost never a good thing. Not that it matters since Siobhan is dead, and whatever it was died with her. She's aware she's pausing a bit too long here. "Oh, is that a... a bad thing?" she asks uncertainly, a bit distracted.

She's not sure she really wants to know. She's still wondering what Andrew and Juliet were fighting about and asking herself what the hell she's going to do about Henry. She can try her best to be Siobhan, but she is _not_ going to have sex with Gemma's husband, not after seeing how upset she is about Henry. She might not be Gemma's real best friend, but she feels she owes the woman at least that much respect. Besides, she's got enough to hide from Andrew already without adding an affair to the mess; there's no way she can hide both secrets.

The doctor laughs a little, like this confusion is funny. Why the hell is he so jolly? Is she supposed to be happy about this? "No, no... It's a great thing," he pronounces warmly. She can practically feel him smiling over the phone. "Congratulations! You're about four weeks along," he announces. Her knees just about give out underneath her.

Her eyes widen in disbelief as she attempts to process the information. Siobhan, _pregnant_. She hadn't expected that, and she wonders how Siobhan would've felt to hear that. For some reason, she can't imagine her sister being too happy about it. "I... I'm pregnant?" she chokes out, feeling like someone's knocked her feet out from under her. She still can't wrap her mind around it, the enormity of it, of what her sister's death meant. Then she hears a noise, something like rustling, so she turns around, and Andrew's there, staring at her, clearly stunned. He freezes then, stops moving when she pulls away from the phone. There's something hesitant in the way he stands there, like he wants to move forward, to move towards her, but he can't for whatever reason.

Bridget has seen many looks on Andrew's face in the four days she's known him, but she has never seen any wide-eyed or slack-jawed expressions (a look she knows is mirrored on her own face). For a moment, she doesn't know which of them is more surprised by this, him or her. Either way, this news is nothing to smile about. "Siobhan, is that true? Are you really pregnant?"

She wants to close her eyes, cringe, and sigh, but it's too late for that. This is the last thing she needs now. The _last_ thing. She nods slowly. There's no way to deny it now. A kind of hysteria begins to bubble up inside of Bridget. What is she going to do about this? Andrew comes over, approaching her cautiously, as if he's afraid she'll lash out if he gets too close. Her sister's husband is little more than a stranger to her, and the look on his face isn't helping her figure out what he's thinking. Bridget puts on a brave face nonetheless, swallowing her worries enough to offer Andrew a thin smile. Andrew doesn't smile back, merely cocks his head at her, giving her a curious look. It's the same watchful look he gives her when he doesn't think she's looking, and it's maddening.

"Excuse me, Dr. Marks. My husband just walked in... I'll call you later to set up an appointment. Thank you for calling," she tells the doctor politely, sounding so much like her sister that it kills her a little bit inside. Is that what this life is going to be? Her watching a little bit of Bridget die every day, only to be replaced by Siobhan's numbness? She remembers Siobhan's voice, cool, almost clinical, and always in control and in charge, and then it hits her that she's never going to hear that voice from her sister's mouth again. It makes her want to cry. She doesn't, though.

She hangs up before the good doctor can say one more word. Bridget turns fully to face Andrew, this man who's _supposed_ to be her husband, like she has any idea what that means. She feels like she's playing house, acting like some kind of placeholder for her sister. Maybe her sister felt that way too. Bridget isn't stupid. There's a reason she found Siobhan's engagement ring in that pill bottle. She saw the ring, and she knew instantly that her sister wanted to escape this life, this gilded, empty prison. And Andrew was a part of that, maybe the biggest part of that.

She still doesn't know anything about him, not really, just that he's a wealthy businessman from the U.K. who lives here, on Park Avenue, with her, and he's her sister's husband of five years. She thinks he does something with investments. She knows he has a teenage daughter, Juliet, who's supposed to be at boarding school, but that they're not close. He has brown hair and brown eyes. His—their, now—marriage is on very thin ice, and he blames Siobhan for it. And he doesn't like ballet.

She doesn't even know his middle name or his birthday, let alone his favorite color or the way he takes his coffee. She doesn't even know which side of the bed he sleeps on, only that he doesn't sleep with her and hasn't for a while. She doesn't know what types of food he likes or if he was married before or even how old he is. She doesn't know where he's from, doesn't know what he did before she showed up here. She doesn't know when their anniversary is, just like she doesn't know why things are so bad between them or why he even married Siobhan in the first place. But she wants to.

And, if she's planning on sticking around for a while (she's still not sure about that), she needs to—has to—know all of this.

Bridget can't blame Siobhan for wanting an out. She's only been here four days, and her sister's life is already enough to make her run for the hills and appreciate her days in the gutter, where no one had any expectations of her. She takes a shallow breath. A hesitant, nervous smile forms on her lips. She still isn't sure how Andrew's going to react. He runs so hot and cold on her that she can't afford to guess with him. She always guesses wrong with him. "He says I'm about four weeks along," she offers quietly, watching him carefully for even the slightest sign of emotion.

Andrew is utterly silent, and this makes her uncomfortable. She tries her best not to fidget because Siobhan wouldn't and clears her throat instead. "So, um, how do you feel about this?" she manages awkwardly, playing with her fingers, barely able to keep looking at him. Siobhan wouldn't mangle her words like that. She'd be polished and perfect and know exactly what to say... but Siobhan isn't here right now, and she would've never gotten herself into this situation. Bridget may never have been married, but she's pretty sure husbands aren't supposed to react (or not react) like _this_ when their wives say they're pregnant. He's looking at her like he doesn't know what to believe. Does he really think Siobhan would lie about something like this?

A small eternity passes before Andrew speaks. "How do I feel?" It isn't his normal voice, brusque and almost hectoring, but it isn't quite soft either. He speaks slowly, like he's unused to speaking like this and hasn't in a while. He pauses a moment, and Bridget tries not to bite her lip. Is this supposed to be a rhetorical question? Should she not have asked that? "I don't know how to feel," Andrew says finally, looking away from her. He looks almost angry, but he's so quiet it can't be that. She realizes then that he's in shock but trying to cover it up. Bridget files this away for later. "The doctors said you couldn't fall pregnant."

Something about it almost sounds accusing. Maybe it's because he's turned to look at her again. Either way, she bites her lip, looking down. Evidently the doctors were wrong. She doesn't know how to take this response, but he doesn't exactly sound enthusiastic. She musters up something, wanting to squirm out of her skin as she says it, "If you're not happy about it, I can get it taken care of..." Her voice is low, almost ashamed, and she feels keenly her desire for his approval. Her hand dances anxiously across her stomach, but Bridget doesn't realize it until she notices the direction of Andrew's stare and relaxes her hand, swallowing hard. For the millionth time in her life as Siobhan, she wonders what her sister would've done, what she would've said. Would she have even told Andrew?

Bridget half wants him to say yes so that she doesn't have to _pretend_ anymore, but she doesn't want him to be the kind of guy who wants that. She wants him to be the kind of guy who deserved her sister. She wants the way out of this, but a part of her doesn't because she knows she doesn't deserve easy. Being someone else _shouldn't_ be easy, should it?

A while ago, she would've said that Siobhan would've never even suggested such a thing, not after Sean, but now she's not so sure. Six years seem to have changed Siobhan more than she could've ever understood. Andrew doesn't see anything odd in this suggestion, but there's something burning in his eyes, something raw, that wasn't there before. He comes closer, grabs her arms. She jerks her head up to look at him and is alarmed to find herself looking directly into his eyes. She doesn't feel safe this close to him and wants to break away from him and his gaze, but Siobhan wouldn't back down, so she doesn't either. "It's not that I'm not happy about it, Siobhan... I'm just surprised."

For whatever reason, Bridget finds herself unable to look away. The intensity in his eyes steals her breath away. She doesn't realize she's holding her breath, waiting for his next words, until he opens his mouth, looking a bit... regretful? His voice is filled with some tenuous emotion she can't name, something different than the coolness, sarcasm, and disapproval she's used to every time she opens her mouth. She might call it warmth. "We finally stopped trying, and we've only been together a few times the past month... I just wasn't expecting it," he says finally, looking a bit haggard. He attempts to smile, trying to look her in the eyes, but it doesn't really work.

She also attempts a smile, and it falls equally flat. All of her attempts to be Siobhan fall flat with Andrew. She can fool everyone else, but she can't fool him. "You and me both," she says, meaning it. She stifles the dry laugh that would've come out, the one Andrew wouldn't understand. She rubs her stomach absently, thinking of the child that isn't growing there. Would the child have even been Andrew's? Judging by his surprise and the coolness in their marriage, probably not. He'd been gone for two weeks and hadn't tried to sleep with her yet...

She doesn't want to have sex with her dead sister's husband, spending every second of it worrying about how Siobhan would've done things (God knows she knows a few more tricks than Shiv did) or whether or not he'll notice the differences between them and praying frantically to the Catholic God of her childhood that Siobhan didn't have a tattoo or scar or freckle that she didn't know about, but she is a bit disappointed nonetheless that he doesn't seem to want to. Even though Andrew isn't her type at all, isn't even the type of guy who would ever be interested in a girl like her, not even for a one-night stand... it still bothers her a little bit. She isn't _that_ skinny, is she?

Andrew's grip tightens a little on her arm. It's reassuring in a way because it keeps her grounded in this life that seems so foreign and surreal. He moves in closer, getting in her face. His dark, piercing eyes have this way of seeing right through her. Sometimes she thinks he sees all the way inside of her, sees her as she is—the whore, the junkie, the alcoholic mess, the guilty sister who is so out of her element here that she's just trying to keep her head above water. But if Siobhan drowned, then what hope does she have? And then sometimes, like right now, he looks at her like he likes what he sees, and she thinks that maybe, just maybe, she's done something right. "How do _you_ feel about this, Siobhan?" he asks quietly, eyes serious and searching. And, just like that, he's leaving it up to her. She is breathless, just this short of showing how hard it is to keep it all together. She clenches her hands, laces the fingers together so he can't see them shaking.

Honestly, Bridget doesn't know how to feel about this either. She's not really pregnant, and it's just one more thing she has to worry about. His eyes drop to her stomach for a moment, gaze pointed. She's so glad to get his heat-seeking missile eyes off her face that she exhales and relaxes a measure, finally able to breathe when he's not looking at her like that. She can't function at this level of intensity.

Andrew reaches out and hesitantly puts his hand on her stomach. He pretends not to notice her sharp intake of breath, just like she pretends not to notice his almost-flinch. The expression in his eyes is faraway, as if he's thinking of some moment with the real Siobhan before she, Bridget, came along. "I know you never thought this was something I wanted, but I do." His eyes shoot back up to meet hers. And it's too much. "I do want more children. With you," he tells her softly. She can tell he means it.

And maybe that's the worst part, since Siobhan's never going to be around to hear it. She's never going to have the chance to change her mind or have this conversation or make up with Andrew... if that was even what she wanted. If she really wanted that, Siobhan wouldn't have killed herself; Bridget's sure of that. Bridget swallows down her questions, once again wondering what her sister has done to make him look at her like this. Why is it that her sister's own husband doesn't trust her? What has she done to him to make him this way? Bridget blinks back tears. Siobhan doesn't cry. "And even though this isn't something we planned," he continues, pausing long enough to make her sweat. "I'd really like to have this baby with you... if that's what you want." He exhales then, almost like he's relieved, watching her anxiously for any sign of a response.

She knows a few of her sister's problems with him already, you see. Bridget's always been good at reading people. She's had to be like that all her life, a skill she picked up somewhere between the drinking and stripping and those awful things she did for drugs on the streets. She knows how to please people, how to find out what they need and be what they want. And, unfortunately, Bridget knows a great deal about married men, all the things they don't tell their wives.

She knows that he's not around a lot, and Siobhan must've been really lonely in this empty, neutral apartment that looks like it belongs in a magazine but doesn't look like anyone actually lives there. It doesn't really seem like he pays Siobhan a lot of positive attention either, and that's probably what drew her high-maintenance sister to Henry, who has all the time and energy in the world to be devoted to her. Andrew's not a passionate man, like Henry. He's emotionally closed-off, shuts her down every chance he can, and has difficulties expressing feelings other than some shade of anger. She can see how this would've been frustrating to her sister, but she knows it too well not to recognizes it for what it is—a defense mechanism.

He's protecting himself from getting too invested, from feeling too much. She can't help but think how terrible it is that he feels he has to protect himself from his own wife. He doesn't trust her. She recognizes how much even confessing this much has taken out of him, how unsure he seems—maybe she's not the only one who doesn't know Siobhan anymore? She cocks her head a little, herself unable to believe it. "So, you're happy about this?" It comes off painfully blunt and artless when she says it, patting her stomach and chewing on the corner of her lip.

This was the wrong thing to say. Andrew's brow furrows, and he frowns at her. She's almost certain he'll call her stupid or childish or ask her if she's twelve again. "Of course I am, Shiv," he retorts in a low, almost raw voice that crackles with frustration. His accusing eyes ask her how she can even question this. Still, it's the first time he's used that nickname since he arrived. "Is it _really_ so bad between us that you don't know that?" he demands incredulously, voice nearly breaking. His eyes are so dark and full of hurt, hurt that _she_ put there, and they burn into her. Those eyes are going to haunt her dreams; she just knows it. They'll haunt her dreams like the dimple in his cheek and the smile he gives her that tricks her into thinking he's happy, that he's pleased with her.

She looks away, unable to see him in pain, no matter how unintentional it is. She shrugs, ashamed. It's not her fault she knows nothing about their marriage. She can't know that. He's only been her husband for four days, give or take. She swallows over the lump in her throat and knows it really is that bad. "I... I just wanted to make sure. I'm scared, Andrew," she stammers, glancing up at him hesitantly. That was probably the only honest thing she's ever said to him, and for a moment she allows herself to pretend Bridget was saying that to him, looking for comfort, for someone to fix her problems. Siobhan was the only person who'd ever really comforted her. Even Malcolm and Machado couldn't give her the same level of reassurance.

He's let go of her arms now, but he's still standing fairly close. Her hand finds his without a thought. The moment her hand slides into his, she realizes what she's doing and stares down at it, wondering why it feels like second nature. Andrew is staring at her, however, expecting some sort of explanation she can't give him. There are the words, of course, on the tip of her tongue: _I'm not your wife, Andrew. I'm not her. I'm not Siobhan. Forgive me. Please._ But she doesn't say them. She sighs, setting her shoulders, hand still resting on her stomach. "I don't want to bring a child into this, if it's like before. It wouldn't be fair to anyone," she says resolutely, forcing herself to look Andrew in the eyes.

It's mostly a stalling technique, but, in her own twisted way, she actually means that. Neither she nor Siobhan had the best childhood, and this environment clearly isn't helping Juliet, who has far more problems than she knows. Andrew's jaw tightens. "We've both made mistakes, Siobhan," he replies equally firmly, giving her that stern look, blaming her for all their problems. Is this what Juliet feels like when they argue? Still, he hasn't bitten her head off, and he's still listening, still holding her hand, even. And he wants the baby, right, so that must mean something?

Bridget nods, swallowing hard. She's trying to hold back tears, and this isn't even her marriage or her baby. She's losing herself in the lie already. "I know! And I want something better for our child," she cries a bit more loudly than she intended. Her hand clutches her stomach as if to protect the baby that isn't there. Her thoughts flash back to that other child, to Sean. She blinks back tears furiously, but the guilt won't go away quite so easily. "He deserves a mother and a father who love him and love each other." She says it before she can think about, and she freezes because she knows Siobhan never would've said something like that, much less to her husband. Siobhan would've thought something like that, though.

Andrew freezes too, staring at her in silence. He gapes at her for a moment before he picks up his jaw and scrutinizes her carefully. She's beginning to see that look more and more often. It's the look of a man searching for something, trying to reconcile this version of her with the version he remembers. Then his face becomes serious and inscrutable once more, and she has no idea what to expect. She's absolutely petrified that Andrew's really seen through her and that he knows everything, so she tenses like she's waiting to be hit, ready to confess everything.

He doesn't call her on her lies or ask who she is. Andrew surprises her by taking her other hand in his, resting his thumb on her knuckles, and moving closer. If Bridget's hands feel different than Siobhan's, he doesn't say so. Then he takes a deep breath and once again looks right into her eyes. "You're right," he says finally. She stares back at him with wide eyes, struck dumb by astonishment. His forehead is less than an inch from hers, and he almost rests it against her hair. "Look, I promise I'll be around more often. I'll cut back on the business trips. I'm willing to put more work into this marriage if you do too. We can fix this together, Siobhan," he promises, all but imploring her to have the baby. But she can't have the baby.

"So..." The look in his eyes turns expectant. He pauses for a moment before demanding, "What's it going to be? Are you going to have this baby or not?"

She tenses just as he does in expectation of her answer. There's something irresistible in his gaze. She still can't look away, and she's not sure she wants to. She knows what he wants to hear and what she wants to say... but she also knows what she needs to do. And she's _not_ Siobhan, no matter how much she wants to pretend she is, to pretend that she has a husband and friends who love her.

All Bridget has is her sobriety, regrets, enemies lurking around every corner, a life she stole from her dead sister, and a Glock.

She sighs, praying for strength and a little of her sister's famed composure, and steps towards him ever so slightly. She attempts to smile. When it doesn't work the first time, she tries again. The voice that comes out of her is barely more than a whisper. "I know things have been a little... rocky... with us lately, but I really think that this could be what we need." She doesn't look up at Andrew until she's done. Part of the reason she doesn't is because she's afraid she'll see that strange look he gave her the other night after the Opera, half frustration and half hope, and all bittersweet longing. She can't be her sister, but she thinks she can be who he wants her to be, if given half the chance. "A chance to start over," she breathes, hoping. She tries to convey to him with her eyes that she really does want to start over, but she's not sure if she succeeds.

After all, starting over is really all she can do, isn't it? It's all she can hope for.

Apparently she does manage to succeed, even though she's fairly sure Siobhan would never suggest such a thing, and she thinks Andrew knows that too. Maybe he, like her, just wants to believe in something again.

Andrew surprises her again by wrapping his arms around her, pulling her to him so fast it kind of knocks her off-balance. She allows herself to relax in his arms. It's been too long since someone's touched her like this. He touches her like he loves her, like she's made of porcelain. No one's ever touched Bridget like that, dirty, cheap, addicted, wasted, used, sloppy Bridget. It brings tears to her eyes.

His eyes crinkle faintly at the corners when he smiles. She hadn't noticed that before. She'd thought his face as impassive as any statue's. He leans his forehead against hers, and she feels some of the tension drain out of him. "I was hoping you'd say that," he murmurs warmly, pressing a kiss to her cheek. Her cheek still feels warm where his lips touched it. The last time his lips touched her, the only time she kissed him, his lips were cold and hard from the chilly weather. Maybe he's warming up to her.

The loving expression in his eyes throws her off. He doesn't need to say that he loves Siobhan. He wouldn't because she can tell he's afraid of admitting too much to her, not wanting to risk letting Siobhan know he still cares. She probably wasn't even supposed to see that. Yet, in a rare moment of vulnerability, his defenses are stripped away, and the rapturous look he gives her says everything. Bridget smiles for real. "I'm really happy about this, Shiv," he tells her, meeting her gaze as he pulls back enough to rub her stomach with such affection that she can feel her body weeping for a child, wanting one.

A tear trickles down her cheek, unbidden. She pulls Andrew back to her, holding him tighter around the shoulders, extending the hug, trying to keep him from seeing her eyes full of unshed tears or the way her bottom lip trembles. She swallows over the lump in her throat, tilting her head back and trying to hold back the tears. "Me too, Andrew, me too," she whispers in his ear, lips brushing faintly against his cheek. He turns towards her. His hand still rests on her stomach, so she puts her hand on top of his and entwines their fingers, giving him a small smile.

She manages to get her eyes under enough control to pull back, hoping that her mascara hasn't run and that her eyes aren't bloodshot or swollen. If they are, Andrew doesn't notice. He's too busy smiling (and she never thought she'd say _that_!). It's a rare, genuine smile. "We're going to have a baby," he whispers fondly, kissing her forehead then the top of her hair. He strokes her hair, running his fingers through it slowly. She closes her eyes at the sensation, leaning into his touch. "We're going to have a _baby_," he repeats, still dazed but happy. And that's when it first occurs to her that she _could_ have a baby, how easy it would be.

She's not on the pill anymore, hasn't been since her prescription ran out the first week of rehab. She hasn't had sex with anyone in over six months. Bridget never had any trouble getting pregnant; she's not fragile like Siobhan. And, as she looks at Andrew, she doesn't think it would be hard to have sex with him. No, it would be all _too_ easy. She's done far, far worse, after all. He wouldn't question it much, she thinks, and if he did, she could just persuade him... She stops, pulls her train of thought to an end there. Andrew is Siobhan's husband. He isn't **hers**. She barely knows him, and he has no idea who she really is. He doesn't even know Bridget _exists_.

What is she thinking? Her sister hasn't even been dead for a week yet... and this is how she honors her memory? Impersonation, fraud, theft, adultery? She can't afford to do something as stupid and risky as sleep with her husband. Getting pregnant is the _last_ thing she needs right now. She's not meant to stay here, to get caught up in all of this (she doesn't realize yet that she is caught, and terribly so, doesn't realize it until later when it's too late).

Think, Bridget. "I know," she mutters, equally dazed. She makes the mistake of letting herself get caught up in it, even though she knows that she isn't pregnant, that Siobhan and Andrew are never going to have that baby together. She wants to tell Andrew now that she's sorry, sorry for getting his hopes up like this, but she doesn't want to disappoint him any more. And, as selfish as she knows it is, she doesn't want to make him cross with her again, doesn't want to upset this slow truce they're forming. She doesn't want to ruin this for him by being Bridget. And she can pretend a bit longer, can't she?

His smile turns dazzling. She never even knew he had that expression. When was the last time you smiled like that, Andrew? "You know what this means, right?" he drawls, stroking her side. It tickles, and she shudders a little. She wonders if he'd be this affectionate with Siobhan, wonders if her sister would bite his head off for it. What reasons did her sister have for hating him so much? How did her sister feel about her own husband anyway? The longer she stays here, the more confused she is about that.

She purses her lips, contemplating it for a moment. This sounds like one of Andrew's little tests, and she can't help but feel like she's being set up to fail. "Um, we're going to have to put a nursery in the new apartment?" she suggests half-seriously, barely able to refrain from biting her lip. She'll have to tell Gemma that later.

Andrew considers her point for a moment. She watches him uneasily, sure she's said the wrong thing once again. Most of the time she's around Andrew, she feels like she's back in school, or, worse still, back with her father. And, just like back then, Bridget's always got the wrong answer. But then Andrew laughs, actually _laughs_, nodding. Her shoulders sink in relief. She didn't know he _could_ laugh like that, but she wants to hear him really laugh, wants to make him smile. He deserves it for putting up with her and Siobhan and whatever this is. "Well, that," he concedes, still chuckling, pulling away from her, "and we're going to have to go out to celebrate tonight, love."

Her eyes widen at the nickname, and Andrew freezes. He gives her this almost alarmed, almost apologetic look, as if he didn't realize what he was doing. She feels a little guilty because she thinks it's nice. She can't remember the last nice nickname anyone ever had for her, the last one that wasn't some sort of slur... bitch, slut, whore... or some fake stripper name like Candy or Sugar. She smiles mildly. "That sounds nice."

Andrew's still smiling, and she tries not to stare at him like he's a pod person. Tries and fails. "Good." He pauses for a moment, and you can see him planning it all out. "First I was thinking we'd go out for dinner, then maybe we can go to that new club downtown you like for a bit of dancing," he offers, glancing at her to gage her reaction. She nods and tries to look excited, but the word "dancing" makes her stomach drop like a stone. She _knows_ she doesn't dance like Siobhan.

She forces a smile. "I'd like that very much, Andrew," she says distantly, with a trace of her sister's poise. She sounds like an alien saying that, like some girl in a movie. Then she reaches out for his arm a bit timidly, stopping him before he goes off to make the arrangements. Andrew always has to take care of everything, she's noticed. He turns to face her, tensing under her hand. "Only..." She stalls for a moment, licks her lips, twists her ring on her finger. "Can we not stay out too late? I'm kind of tired."

And she is. Being Siobhan is exhausting.

Andrew's lips turn up. "Of course, Siobhan. Whatever you want." He pats her hand a bit awkwardly, and she assumes this is meant to be comforting. She can't see him comforting Siobhan much; she can't see her sister needing it much either. Siobhan was an island, always had been, and Bridget had never really felt that her sister needed anyone (she, Bridget, needed _everyone_ and everything and then some).

"You and the baby need all the rest you can get," he says very seriously. The way he stares at her and won't stop makes her think he's really trying to impress this on her, but she doesn't know why. His look softens a little, and he tucks a wayward strand of hair behind her ear, the tips of his fingers brushing against her cheek. "I like your hair down, by the way," Andrew announces, a dimpled half-smile forming. Her face heats up a bit; so he's noticed that, then.

Andrew doesn't allow himself to smile properly very often, which makes even these half-smiles all the more valuable. "It makes you look less... severe. It's very becoming," he murmurs, never removing his eyes from her face. His voice is low, caressing almost. Bridget allows herself a smile, self-conscious and uncertain, but a smile nonetheless. "You should wear it like that more often," he adds a moment later, sounding distracted. His fingers run through the back of her hair, fingertips skimming the back of her scalp. She breaks out in goosebumps and has to try a bit harder to keep her breathing steady, to disguise how her heart's been racing from the minute she turned around and saw him standing there.

Bridget knows her sister almost always wears her hair up, usually in some sort of bun. As Siobhan always says, it's her trademark. Siobhan's done this as long as she can remember, from braids and ponytails to poofs and elegant up-dos, but Bridget can't bring herself to do it, to take that final step and really _be_ her sister. She's all too willing to commit to the lie in other ways, but she can't do that. Tight buns give her headaches, and she likes the loose, familiar feeling of her hair around her shoulders. This, at least, is one small part of Bridget she can have. So she compromises and wears her hair half-up and half-down, so that her hairstyle is like her, an amalgam of two very different women.

She wants to return the compliment in some way, but she doesn't know what to say, and she's afraid she'd overdo it. So she says nothing, but the two of them stand there in silence, staring at each other for a long time. He's so close that she can smell the cologne on his skin, musky yet refined, definitely expensive. With the way he's staring at her, she thinks he might lean forward and... she's kinda waiting for it, tilting her head towards him... but, though he lurches forward a little, he pulls back, spooked, before he takes it any further. He clears his throat and awkwardly averts his gaze, shoving his hands in his pockets.

Bridget's disappointed, and this realization jolts her somehow. She and Andrew stand there a few moments more in silence, neither of them looking at the other, both of them breathing faster than usual. She glances at him under her eyelashes and looks away before he can catch her. Then Andrew grabs her arm. He hesitates for a long moment before he finally touches her, so she stares at him until he does. For some reason, he can't look at her. "Now come on, love, we've got to get you some prenatal vitamins," he urges, starting towards the front door.

He seems a bit nervous. He's still very determinedly not looking in her direction, even as he leads her towards the elevator. Maybe it's the baby. Then again, maybe it's what didn't just almost happen between them a minute or so ago. Still, she likes how he says vit-ah-mins instead of vite-a-mins, finds it endearing even, so much so that she has to try not to smile. She's beginning to see why Siobhan didn't want her to meet him, why she'd never even told him she had a sister. If she had a husband like this, she'd want to keep him to herself too. And, as loathe as Siobhan would be to admit it, Bridget always had better luck with men than her sister.

Sometimes she forgets her sister's dead. She wants to call her up or write another letter because there's so many questions she has for her, so many things she wants to tell her... but then she realizes that she can't. Because Siobhan is dead, as hard as that is to believe. Maybe it's because she never saw her body, or maybe it hasn't set in yet. Or maybe that feeling that tells her her sister's still out there somewhere, that weird twin connection, isn't wrong at all and Siobhan's sitting in Paris sipping wine and smoking cigarettes and laughing at all of them, trying to live without her.

Sometimes she wonders what Siobhan would think about this, would think about her stealing her life like this. But, she reminds herself firmly, as bad as it is, Siobhan chose to run away from this life. She's the one who gave it up, never realizing how good she had it.

But Bridget knows, and Bridget would _kill_ to be loved even one tenth as much as her sister. Andrew, Gemma, Henry... Bridget had never been lucky enough to have such friends. Her sister's life might not be perfect, that was for sure, but she did have a lot more than she'd realized, and her sister had taken that for granted.

She stops and digs her heels in when they're at the elevator, and he's reaching for the button. She puts a hand on his arm, and all his motion ceases as he turns to look at her. He's unable to hide the discomfited look on his face, and she doesn't know what to make of that. It gives her a moment's pause. "Andrew, why don't you go by yourself? I... I'm not feeling too well," she half-lies, swallowing for effect and trying to look as ill as she possibly can. She pulls her hand to her stomach and grimaces. "I really don't think a trip in a car is what I need right now." She does her best to look like she's nauseous.

Andrew's facial expression softens some. At first she thinks it's tenderness or some other equally alien emotion, but then she realizes that it's relief. Andrew moves his arm out from under her hand, like he thinks she isn't going to notice. He frowns in contemplation for a moment. There's sympathy in his expression, maybe worry too. "Why don't you go get a glass of water and lie down... see if you feel better?" he suggests softly. "I'll go to the chemist-" Chemist, what the hell is that? What kind of prenatal vitamins is he buying her? "-and pick up something for the nausea too." She nods dumbly. This whole thing is actually making her feel nauseous; only it's disgust, not a baby, making her stomach churn.

He turns away and presses the elevator button. For a moment he stands there, clearly waiting for her to go away, before he turns back, looking guilty. "Do... do you want anything else, Siobhan?" he asks cautiously. When she doesn't respond, he continues, "Any cravings?" She shakes her head no, even though she can think of about a million things she wants that Siobhan doesn't have stashed somewhere in this palace (potato chips, macaroni and cheese, mashed potatoes, whipped cream, candy, any decent-tasting ice cream flavor, chocolate bars, marshmallow fluff, the list goes on...). Andrew smiles awkwardly, politely really, and once again turns back to the elevator impatiently.

It comes a moment later, and he steps in and turns around, facing the doors. He gives her a quizzical look but brings his hand up and waves at her stiffly. The doors close, and she watches the light above the elevator move from number to number until it reaches the lobby. This seems to take a small eternity. And, as much as Bridget wants to go to the window, to make sure he's really left the building, she knows she can't see him from up here on the fourteenth floor.

She retreats to the master bathroom and stares at her reflection like it'll give her the answers she seeks. It won't. For a minute, she imagines it's her sister staring back at her. "Siobhan, what did you do?" she asks her reflection in a low voice. It's a poor substitute for her sister, and she can't stand to keep looking at this lie. Bridget splashes water on her face. She still doesn't feel clean, though.

She kind of feels like she used to back when she was tricking, back when her every action was a carefully choreographed lie, her very existence an inherent falsehood. Bridget had been the perfect little actress, always knowing what everyone else wanted but never knowing herself. She remembers always feeling dirty and used, waking up in strange places next to stranger people with her high wearing off, and no matter how hard she tried, she could never wash that feeling away. She lost herself in the process, and the drugs and alcohol helped her forget that but dragged her so much further down that road that she didn't even know who she was anymore. Even in the worst of it, none of that felt as bad as this deceit.

It's worse because, for a moment, she forgets it isn't real, lets herself get lost in the role. She'd always wondered what it would be like to be married, to be a wife and have children and a home. Before, she'd never thought that was in the cards (for her), never thought that she was good enough or deserving enough to have that... but maybe now... But what on earth was she thinking? This man was her sister's husband. Her sister was the pregnant one, not her, and the baby was probably not even his! The baby that was dead now, just like her sister.

And that's the thought that finally makes her cry. As she starts to cry, she turns the faucet on because Juliet's still here, and, even if she wouldn't give a damn about her stepmother crying her eyes out, she might mention it to her father. Unable to look at herself anymore, she sinks to the floor, leaning against the wall, and sobs hysterically.

She cries for the loss of truth, for the lies that surround her and keep her alive. Then she cries because she's caught up in all of this, and she doesn't want any of it. She weeps because that's a lie, and she knows it. She weeps for the part of herself that she's lost, that she's losing each borrowed minute she stays here. She weeps for Gemma, for her sister's role in Gemma's unhappiness, and for her own complicity with Henry. She weeps for Henry, who doesn't see and doesn't understand why she's going to break his heart. She weeps for Sean, for Malcolm, for all the people she's hurt. She weeps for Andrew, who doesn't know his wife and baby are gone and that she's just an imposter with the same face. She weeps for the day she'll have to tell him, for how hurt he'll be about it.

Bridget cries for the baby she won't have. And, finally, she weeps for her dead sister and her baby, the niece or nephew she will never have, who will never, _ever_ be born.


End file.
